Shadows
by DogStar716
Summary: Light flickers across the room, dancing slowly slowly over the faces of those who live only in shadow and never in heart. Rating for Character Death


**Shadows**

The fire burns, slowly, slowly. Light flickers across the room, dancing slowly (slowly) over the faces of those who live only in shadow and never in heart. It lights them up, brings them into sharp (painful) relief with the orange and the yellow of the room. One of them, only, lives still in heart (yearning). Heart longs and mourns, reaching through the fire to bring back that which it consumed (devoured) into shadow.

Papers scatter in the room, rustling, rustling. They jumble and spread, filling the air with the old (forgotten) scent of memory. Long scrolls roll across the table, cramped writing filling (consuming) the paper until there are only black lines, endless against the hard wood (_Dear Remus_). He picks one up (slowly) with trembling (aching) fingers. Then another, and another, until they all rest between his skin, which is just like the parchment (skin) itself. The black words (green words, red words, blue words) reach up to him, sometimes shouting, sometimes laughing, once or twice they cry. He runs worn (tired) hands over them, and brings the top one closer to his eyes to read.

It's from a shadow (memory). It echoes words (whispers) long ago said, laughter that once filled the halls (rooms) with heart. He lives by heart now; lives through this letter, and through the others, but he's read them so many times they no longer stir emotions inside his empty body. He picks up the next, and the next (long list). One is not a letter (reminder) but a report he got good marks on long ago. He reads it, trying to smile in fond memory of the dangerous chimera, trying to recall the floating (soaring) sensation when he saw the _Wonderfully written_ printed neatly across the top for the first time. He finds that he can't; his heart does not have room for the joy of success (freedom); his heart is filled with emptiness.

He picks up the next- it's an award. He remembers who got it- another shadow (long blown away) - he remembers being there for it and smiling. He remembers feeling happy (fondly jealous), and smiling again and again (ear-splitting). The words walk neatly across the page, once scrolled tightly into a little tube but now flat with wear, typing out the success of a lifetime (time flies).

The next is another letter, from a shadow (betrayal). His heart has no more passion for anger (fury), but he knows what it feels like. He pushes the crinkled parchment away, telling himself he should burn it. He can't- it's his only memory of that shadow. He reaches out (shaking), and picks it up again. _Dear Moony_. He reads it, swallowing the memories of horror (terror) that it brings to the surface of his mind. He has no time for those memories, now. They're long past (nearly forgotten); they do not make him feel.

The last five are letters from the first shadow. He looks at them, but cannot read them. His true heart (soul) resides in that parchment. He puts them down, feeling them slide against his skin, brushing, dry on dry (aged on aged), paper on paper.

The wind outside moans (howls) against the window, dark with grime. He crosses to shut it properly (lock away the spirits), and tries to pear through the dirt to the street below. He can see the rain falling black (sorry) against the black (hard) cobblestones and the black (incessant) people as they scurry (ants) to find shelter from the gods. The water does little to wash away the grim (memories); he scrubs at it with a worn (hopeless) sleeve. A squeaking sound is made, but no good occurs (does it ever?). He takes the cloth away, squinting again out at the falling black water. It falls and falls and never hits the ground, but keeps on falling (crying) from the sky, unceasing and sorrowful. He feels the rain fall into the shadows of his heart and turns back to the last letters. One by one, he picks them up. _Dearest Moony_. His hearts rises from the yellowed, fading parchment to choke (suffocate) him. He feels rain inside the house now (so cold), dripping down his cheeks and off the end of his nose to stain the once-black (loving) words in front of him.

Papers scatter in the room, rustling, rustling. They jumble and spread, filling the air with the old (forgotten) scent of memory. Long scrolls roll across the table, cramped writing filling (consuming) the paper until there are only black lines, endless against the hard wood (_Dearest Remus_). He nearly bends to pick them up, gather them into his (clumsy) hands and set them right (ordered), but stops. Someone else will; they have nothing to do.

The wind outside moans (howls) against the window, dark with grime. He glances once, aware that it is still not shut properly (closed against the spirits), and knows that someone else will do that too. There are still shadows here who have no heart (numb)- they need something to fill their emptiness.

The light is green and brilliant (lying), spreading slowly (slowly) through the room to seep out through the cracks in door and window. The words are muttered (screamed) under his breath as forgotten memories (lives) walk in long rows across his eyes. He doesn't feel anything, except the shadows waiting for him, waiting to steal his heart at last. He chokes once before the light, which has already filled the room, reaches him, chokes on the tears and the one, last, bitter regret of life, and then there is nothing but the shadow, waiting for him with arms wide open.

The fire burns, slowly, slowly. Light flickers across the room, dancing slowly (slowly) over the faces of those who live only in shadow and never in heart. It lights them up, brings them into sharp (painful) relief with the orange and the yellow of the room, etching deep lines of care into the grim of their faces. One of them used to live still in heart (yearning), but he's gone now. He's become another shadow haunting the shadows of the living.


End file.
